Hanging on Persimmon Trees
by Krooks
Summary: A drunk Asian kid stole his new truck. The only reason why Daryl hesitated to burn that stupid little baseball cap was because it was the only thing left in his empty parking lot. (Slash/NZ AU)
1. Chapter 1

**Title:** Hanging on Persimmon Trees  
 **Disclaimer:** All characters belong to the TWD Series  
 **Content Warnings:** Slash. AU. Racial slurs. Mature theme content.  
 **Daryl/Glenn**

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 **A/N:** I generally do not add a lot of author comments unless they will have to be there. First comment goes to thank you all to who are reading this. Characterizations are based on the TV series mainly season 1 and 2 (I've only watched up to two episodes of season 4 and completely flipping off the original story). I wanted to write a modern AU with a story based relationship development, so steady progression will occur. I will keep the dialect in text to a minimum as Thomas Jefferson would be appalled at my poor understanding of the Southern American dialect. I am sorry. All that in mind apologies for the long side note. Thanks for reading.

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 **01**

* * *

Waking up next to a toilet pipe indicates some specific things about you. Perhaps it suggests that you are unqualified to be twenty one.

On the other hand he was reeking of booze. _God_. He wanted to curl up and go back to sleep. He wanted to close his eyes again and not see anything. Not feel anything. Once you return to the world of the living however, the dead does not wish you back. Bright spots intruded into his head in an unnecessary hurry. A splitting headache forced his eyes to blink desperately open. The first pitiful sound that came out between his lips sounded something like a whimper of pain, a distinct recognition of regret on whatever happened yesterday. It bounced off the cold walls of his bathroom, echoing into a fractured scar on his clouded mind.

Glenn had no idea how anything happened. Glenn had not the slightest clue of what happened yesterday, except some panels of mindless recollections that showed him drowning in the men's bathroom. He vaguely remembers a hand that struck him, a pool of blood on the dirty floor, a lot of shouting, a lot of cursing, a lot of drinking and a lot of irresponsibility which added up to his sorry state. While he tried to put an effort into remembering the disastrous incident at Andrea's party, the only thing which popped clearly enough into his head was Dale's grave face warning him about the pathetic level of alcohol tolerance he had. Well it was too late to heed that advice now.

It is a discomforting feeling, losing your body. A struggle to stand up was frankly ridiculous and he had no one to blame but himself. Glenn slipped when his sore wrist gave up support, his weight tumbling down back on the floor and bumping into the porcelain hard enough to make him groan. His distorted expression looked down at the bathroom surface covered in his own dried splatters of blood and puke. The numb heat swelling in his insides was the only thing that kept him hurting from all the bruises he had woken up to feel. It was a while before Glenn was finally able to stand on his feet only to sniff miserably at his own dismal reflection in the mirror. His face was paler, his short dark hair in a complete mess locking around his face in cold sweat.

Thankfully his nose was not broken; washing the blood off his face was never a morning chore until today. It would've been less irritating if he knew what he did to deserve that punch in the face. He was generally accepted by most in Andrea's company, unless they had a strong racist hatred bulging inside their heads. Then again, it was big party. It was not just Andrea's guests that tagged along in the chaotic frenzy of what young people called fun. As Glenn finishes wiping up his arms he recalls the large group of older others in the club who ended up joining in as half the people inside were shit drunk by then.

He does not remember half of what happened after three bottles of cock tailed vodka went down his god forsaken throat. And if anyone had an explanation for his broken wrists, his missing jeans and the "why" to the fact that he was wearing a _Mitt Romney T-shirt_ , he was willing to listen with all his sincerity.

* * *

"Glenn. Why are you wearing a Mitt Romney T-shirt?"

A most genuine question of wisdom and acute integrity, sir. Glenn wished he had an answer, he really did. As if wanting to portray that desire, the younger opened his lips only to hiss instantly when the pale cream touched his split lip corner. He was too tired and suffering severely from a hangover to take a shower. But his broken wrists and bleeding scabs weren't going to fix themselves. Dale's remedies kept his wrist bandaged and bones back into place, but despite the old man's disapproval Glenn rejected his idea of going to a hospital. Bones will heal, his bank account will not.

"I" Glenn starts his sentence, unsure of how to finish it. "Does this make me look _political_?" The answer came out more in a stutter than he intended. His only past interest in politics included a smug face of Rick Snyder.

Dale stared at him for a good few seconds before slowly turning his chin down again. The old man's fingers finished up bandaging the others wrist, who had nothing else much productive to say. His sunken lids were only half open, pupils blacker in his bloodshot eyes.

The boy is not his child, obviously. He is not related by any means to the old man than the fact that he was his young neighbor who moved in next door a few years ago. It was harder to not get attached to the youth with such a remarkable grin though, ever since the day Glenn, who looked barely the plausible age to be living by himself when he knocked on his apartment door to say hellos, Dale noticed how effortless he found the boy to be so weirdly pleasant. At first it was the disturbing accusation that Dale had on Glenn being underage. He frequently checked in on the room next door to find younger man stoned on beer and burning imaginary laser holes into his bills, the bare minimum indication which pointed out his legal age. It was beyond Dale to reason with Glenn's habit of getting drunk when his body really had no progress in building up a macho alcohol tolerance.

"You ain't being much of a responsible adult, are you?"

Having no children of his own, Dale felt much obliged to say these things to the younger one who he was now rather fond of. The state he was in when he came for help just an hour ago frankly alarmed him. Glenn had no immediate replies to offer.

"Vodka wasn't my idea."

"I keep telling you about knowing your limits."

"I can't tell the difference between cold Vodka and water, they're both liquid and clear."

Dale met his eyes again. Glenn averted that gaze.

"What even happened?" the inquisitive voice makes Glenn cringe, he was glad that there were no memories existent; otherwise he would've been sitting there feeling guilty at the man's undeserved empathy.

Half of what was intercepting his memories was the headache. A fuzzy blur replaced most of what actually did happen in the long night, now that he was awake however some things were coming back in pieces of jumbled up jig saws. It was a Saturday night, he was getting a Sunday off, and he had an abysmal conversation with his father by phone just a few hours before Andrea suggested he blew some steam off in her party that night. Glenn was only feeling a bit insane, his father was amazingly talented at being a fucked up jerk, all the stress finally won over his head in that one instant where he was offered the bottle of alcohol. The next string of memories was a bit harder to define as drunken Rhee was not exactly the definition of a sensible being.

A lot of violence. Someone pressed him against the wall, and not so pleasantly. They were probably picking a fight, a pack of hyenas. Lots of aggressive words directed at anything. A man with a tattoo on his cheeks violently grabbed his bloodied chin up before biting down on his lips. Now that was a disturbing memory, Glenn furrowed his brows. Someone held his arm back and ended up breaking his wrists, the pain caused a surge of adrenaline rush which drove his fist to fly at the offender's face. After that, there was a lot of blood on the floor. A sickening scent, the stink as putrid as the smell of dead fish, a voice was laughing madly in the midst before the owner of the laugh was kicked hard in the ribs. A twinge of sharp pain raked at his side, Glenn flinched as he lifted up his shirt and felt the bruising between his cage bones. A frown lingered on Dale's face before he left the couch with his medicine box, leaving the younger one to sadly slouch between the cushions.

Glenn supposed club fights in Atlanta were quite common. It could have been worse. At the least he did not have to wake up staring at the ceiling of another house, or worse, in the slammer. Which reminded him, how in the world did he manage to get himself home in that mess?

"Glenn." Dale calls, making him turn his head around. The old man was holding close by to the intercom, a question ridden between his lips. "Jim needs you to move your…" Dale slightly cocks his head to one side. "Truck."

"My what?" He replies, a little bit confused.

* * *

" _M' truck_!"

The man had a capability to win a shouting match against a yodel singer.

"M' truck Merle! Have ya seen a chink wearing a baseball cap yesterday?"

Occasionally Daryl would assume that one day his brother would be able to contribute something helpful into his life. Sure, Merle's not useless but what he offers in his life mostly consists of abhorrent results. So when he wants some answers looking for whomever it was that damn fucking stole his truck right out of his parking lot, he for a moment expected Merle would have been paying better attention to who was stealing his vehicle than some tits and skirts, what with his brother's stuff still in the back and all. But then again, he remembered who he was talking to. The Dixons were not really acknowledged in the field of paying attention to minor details when they were half drunk in a club. Another realization came hard slashing into his head, the day Merle actually recognizes that not all Asians look alike will be the day when the elder Dixon hands out pink frosted cup cakes with unicorn decorations in the hood.

Well it's all fucked now. Fucking piece of dick, a bloody _gook_ ran off with his truck. Daryl was downright pissed and it was a Sunday morning. The man was up since five looking for his missing truck, and by sunrise his face was already an infuriated shade of red. Merle was trying to prove that he was going to be unhelpful; his drunken brother was shutting him out with a sleepy snarl on the couch upstairs. One more shout and the man was going to start shooting his gun at the roof, telling him to get his ass off his hair. It sent Daryl off, annoyed. Stomping into the kitchen, the redneck made sure he could spit out as many profanities as he can all the way down to the porch.

How in the world did that little piece of shit hot wire it anyway? Last when he left the truck to pick up Merle was only an interval of twenty minutes or so, by the time Daryl returned to the parking lot beside the night club the truck was gone. Gone without a speckle of dust, leaving only a stupid little baseball hat squashed flat under the tire. The man briefly wondered if it was just his paranoia, but he was convinced by now that the hat definitely belonged to the truck thief. May god click his tongue down at him, but Daryl Dixon was determined to find him and incinerate him along with the damn cap.

By thrashing in blind rage for a good hour all over the entrance of the club, some young prick in leather loafers testified that he saw an Asian kid drive off with the truck. The only detail he managed to fish out around the parking lot was that he was skinny. And god forbids Daryl Dixon from going nuts, because he needed to find a skinny Asian. Oh yes this was going to work out fantastically, he will have found him in less than a day, how hard would it be to find a skinny Asian guy who owns a ridiculous baseball cap in Atlanta.

"Fuck!"

Daryl snapped, throwing the hat into a random corner out of unfiltered irritation. It was not even his idea to go to the dumb party. Sure the bar was closed and Merle was annoyed that they have run out of beer in the house, it seemed ridiculous for him to be mixing with some young reckless fools who seems to think that drinking themselves to death at three am in the morning at a shady night club was a fun idea. If it wasn't for that idiot with the eye patch and Merle, he would have enjoyed a merry time with his new truck into somewhere else where he could do something productive- god knows hell what, but certainly more productive than losing his truck – instead of…

An indignant sigh rustles softly between his lips. Gathering his hands in a crossed knot, the man rests his neck on his palms, tilting the head backwards. Those damn loud music, that shouting, rumbling of the floor, all the things that pumped the blood inside his head. Grinding, several couples at the corner in heat, drugged women, and the scenes passed in a flurry of haste underneath his closed eyes. He wasn't drunk that night. Had a couple of cans, watched some drinking game with a lot of vodka being passed around. Then he remembers something else, thin strands of laughter.

Daryl wasn't good with a lot of faces. The bulb was out on the entrance way outside the bathroom, and the back corridors were completely dark save for the flickering lights in few second intervals. The man did not have any plans to get nosy into fist business, that kind of shit was just bothersome. In normal days he would have walked the right off, ignoring that trickle of blood seeping through the tiled ceramic floor. Take a piss that he needed to take, get his head out of the freaky business the 'other' people get into. But he did not walk out. He did not, could not ignore that chilling laughter that sent shivers down his spine. It wasn't creepy, not like a sinister sound. But he could not bring himself to ignore it for a reason unknown.

Nothing made much sense after that. Daryl had no idea what he was expecting when he stepped into that fight, dragging a broken bloody mess of a kid who would have otherwise been in a lot more mess, out of the bathroom by the hem of his torn dress shirt missing a couple of buttons. It was too dark to figure what the kid actually looked like, he had black hair and that was all he pretty much recalls besides the fact he was Asian, the face all too excessively swollen and blood ridden to distinguish anything else in particular except… except that laugh and a grin. The first giggled out comment he received in a series of blinks in that dark corridor clearly pointed out the kid was drunk to a point of a long way home: " _Is it Christmas yet_?"

 _Northern accent._

Daryl blinks, shaking his head slightly in a defined frown as he opened his eyes again. That certainly was a weird night. And a night which turned out to become the biggest mistake of his life, the man swears out another piece of profanity before finally getting off the armchair to find that damned hat. Whatever happened happened. He was feeling rather frustrated; now there was another Asian to add to his dose of misery. No use moping over it in the long term, he needed to find that little shit who drove off with his truck and he meant now.

Swears to the old man high above that he'll bloody murder him.

* * *

"Oh, god. No."

Glenn was not in the mood to fool around and be dramatic, but he really had no other reaction than to cover his mouth with the back of his hand. Staring at the pitch black glare of the truck built a funny sensation in his stomach, the kind you get when you know you have done something really wrong.

"Glenn."

"Nope, don't say anything. Please."

Dale looks down from his balcony, leaving Glenn turning around in a droplet of panic. Drunken Rhee, what the hell have you done? He questioned himself three times now, unable to hear an answer from the said drunken Rhee who picked a convenient time to disappear without answers. Glenn rushed inside back to his flat, searched everywhere that he might have thrown a set of car keys into. Not finding anything was a bad sign, the youth returned back to the side of the truck biting down on his tongue. And yes, he received the answer when he grasped open the doors. He fucking hot-wired it.

Judging by the way the boy was pulling at his own hair, Dale assumed the car wasn't an honest asset. It was only a couple of months ago back; quite recent really, when the old man found out about Glenn's certain talents with cars. He was not outwardly proud of it, seemed more sorry than pleased when Dale caught him with siphoned oil but refused to acknowledge it as a crime. More like deluding himself, but with two final notices on his table, Dale couldn't say much anything else on the matter. Not when the boy was looking like he hadn't had a decent meal in weeks. Besides. Glenn used to retort, they probably deserve it. Meaning, as Dale worriedly assumed, the cars were from the unfriendly bunch downtown.

"I'll," Glenn blinks furiously, he'll what? _Give it back_? Casually ride it back to the club asking for the guy who owns the truck he hot-wired? Tell him he was sorry that he stole his truck and ripped apart the front panel beside the wheel?

Then again, he was having second thoughts. There was a stash of drugs inside the duffel bag in the corner, revolver ammunition and a mock KKK poster sprawled across the back seat. If Glenn didn't know any better, he would've concluded that the minute he goes back to find the owner of the truck, he would be lucky if they didn't shoot him on the spot. Things really didn't help out with the fact the truck was new and labeled Land Rover.

Explains the Mitt Romney T-shirt. Though, Glenn did not know what happened to his black button up and would have liked to know, it was his favorite shirt.

"Why did I take this truck?"

"You're asking me?"

Dale's reply made him feel a little retarded. Glenn wasn't proud of it, but the money was worth it sometimes when he received commissions to snick tuned sports cars or just vehicles that some shady people needed. He was good at it, and he didn't offer his talents for free. Wanted, needed the cash when his life support depended on a pizza delivery job which may or may have not sucked on different perspectives. He didn't want to make a habit out of it, but apparently in his drunken frenzy it seemed he has successfully nicked someone's goddamn truck.

"Wake me up when that truck decides that she had enough of my company and flies back to its owner."

Dale rolled his eyes. There was no denial, Glenn was screwed.

 _Shit._

Finding the owner of the truck would have been easier if Glenn had a slightest damn idea of what he looked like. But the truck part was one of the memories that absolutely refused to resurface back into his mind, a fish too slippery for his hook. Hell, he was from Michigan; he was supposed to be good at fishing.

Glenn took his time squirming back onto his feet when he crashed into the bedroom door, his steps faster than his messed up co-ordination was able to catch up. His bruises didn't help much, an arm was wrapped around to ease the pain as he dragged himself up, supported by his bed. The youth whipped off his T-shirt and folded it carelessly into a shriveled ball, quickly fumbling for his jeans under the desk. Pulling on the pants needed more effort than he cared for and ended up just being dragged half way up below his hip bones. Out of what was clearly sheer panic, he didn't have a decent judgment on his now shirtless torso. Well the world would have to just deal with his skin being shown, grabbing a cardigan into his arms the young man was already out on the stairs with his door keys hanging between his lips. Without a word of a single explanation to a frowning Dale, he opened the door of the black truck and was out on the street in mere seconds, shifting gears and his feet stamped against the accelerator.

He never was a religious person.

First time he prayed about anything and it was about a truck.

His Sunday couldn't get any better.


	2. Chapter 2

**A/N:** Thank you for the kind reviews, I'm on my finals, apologies for not being able to make a decent thank you reply.

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His knuckles hurt.

A brief moment of doubt, perhaps a tooth cut it open. No way to know, Daryl only shrugged. A faint groan only too soft, much in agony resonated against the cold walls. The man ignored all that, easy to do so when they were now a pile of bodies lying in their own pools of blood. He spits, something balled up in the side of his mouth ever since that fist landed on his face a few seconds ago.

 _Yea'. Pretend dead, little fuckers._

Most delightful commentary, spat out in the old Dixon didn't seem to be getting up any time soon. A soft grunt escapes his lips as the man drags the scrawny body away from the scene, out back into the corridors.

With the adrenaline still pumping, his head was in fuzz. All dizzy and funny, couldn't even feel his fingers tugging at the other man's shirt, a low hue shade of pale skin glinting between the broken buttons. Certainly, the guy was making a point about wasting his blood, his nose didn't seem broken but it was sure as hell bleeding too much. Daryl didn't even know why he cared; this was all too frustrating considering he just met the other when he was getting ripped apart beside a bloody gent's cubicle.

One side of his eyes were swelling blue, the kid reeked of alcohol, blood, and something else. Fair point was that he could tell it was a kid, probably from the way he was dressed, perhaps from the fact that even if a half of his face was swollen red, the lines were young, in his early twenties - Very irresponsible twenties.

"You dead, slant?" Daryl nudged the unmoving body propped against the wall with his foot, the nose of his boots kicking into the other's thighs. There was a soft moan, then a gasp, then a drunk sway of his head. Under the flicker of the broken lights, they met eyes for a moment. The kid opened his mouth ever so slightly.

"…Is… Is it…?" Daryl waited as the voice croaked a barely audible mumble; there was a certain unexpected anticipation of what he was going to hear.

"Is it Christmas yet?"

There was a distinct pause.

"No. It's September."

Daryl Dixon felt stupid for answering it. It was a habit, answering stupid questions from people who were clearly drunk. A habit he picked up from more than thirty or so years of knowing a man named Merle Dixon. He wanted an explanation as to why he was so transfixed with the blood dripping down the kid's chin. The youth smiled. He let the red drip through his teeth, lips grinning wide apart, dimples.

It gave away a fact. The kid wasn't aware that he looked fucked up. Daryl accepted the soft groans of pain with furrowed brows, which immediately followed the wide grin.

This was the normal cue for him to take his leave, saved his useless ass once, wasn't going to hang around any longer than he cared for, which was odd. Daryl didn't leave. The hollow sound of that creamy laughter still lingered and burned in his memory.

And there, there it was again. The kid was laughing, his whole body shaking as that gleeful sound made the empty darkness echo. He couldn't tell why it was making his stomach burn.

"Hey, you look funny." The Asian mutters in a slow drawl, making the older man scowl. "Like, I had this dream. You know? About, what was it… yea' this giant moustache talking to me…"

Okay. Daryl stood awkwardly, looking down at the pile of rice. He seemed genuinely drunk, had all the signs, the acts, the expression. A goofy grin on his face, his hands fluttering weakly in mid-air, the way drunk people sort of do when they try to emphasize what they are saying in a completely failed notion.

He goes on to talk about how sad he was when the moustache left him in the middle of nowhere in his dream, commented that he always wanted a moustache but never seemed to be able to grow one, talked a few things about always having less hair on his body than others which prompted a rather weird sentence: "I think leg hairs are sexy."

Daryl sort of concludes Merle is one of the better drunk ramblers.

He decided that it was really the time to leave, ignoring that nagging unfinished sensation in his stomach. The man turned his heels without saying another word, ready to march ahead and disappear to the back end of the corridor. Had enough of anything for a day, needed to get out and away from this weird little chink.

Then he stumbled. Lost his balance, his left leg suddenly decided that it didn't want to move. Opening his mouth came first the swearing, and then the eyes drifted down to the floor to witness the pale blood ridden fingers gripping onto his denim. Despite the long slender fingers they couldn't get around the whole of his ankles, and ended up crookedly clawing at the material rather than holding them. The red rims on his wrists seemed to hurt him; the man found himself thinking how breakable it looked.

Whatever way he was doing it, it made Daryl snarl in frustration. The man turned his head around, chin down and letting off an aggressive growl before seeing the younger man down on the floor flat on his stomach, only arms outstretched to grab his leaving feet.

Kid looked ridiculous, in a weirdly cute way. Daryl snorted.

His neck arched, head bobbing up in a miserably sad face. "You're leaving me too?"

Lord, fuck me. The older male found himself wishing he had a manual for what he was feeling right now. This was very confusing, in no other instance in his life had he pondered on how he was supposed to react so much harder than now. He could always kick him away and take his leave, but something about that face sapped that option to the nether.

"Don't leave me." The other pleads, his voice faltering. And god be damned, Daryl Dixon couldn't move an inch. Even for a man like him, who couldn't give a jack about the diversity of language, could have sworn that in that instance, he would have been capable of saying 'what the hell' out loud in nine different languages. That was how dumbstruck Daryl found himself to be.

"Kid, fuck off." Daryl grunts.

"Ouch. That hurt my feelings a wee bit." Despite this, the younger one giggles profoundly in his own drunk-sweet way, a soft sneer as if trying to get the man to make him fuck off. Daryl can now see how that fight started. The saltiness in the air was fading; a silence covered them both in a queer little atmosphere.

"Your eyes are really good looking from down here." The kid adds.

Daryl gives up the reason. The older man chortles, not the nice kind. No, Daryl Dixon was anything but nice. His laughter was something else in the definition of ignorance and cynical joy. _Kid._ He repeats, kicking his legs free from the pale hands.

"Fuck off."

And with that he was walking away, leaving a bloodied mess of a kid in the middle of a dark corridor, ignoring that small little voice inside his head urging him to turn back and stay.

* * *

Glenn didn't have friends. He wasn't good with friends. He didn't grow friends. He wasn't good with relationships. Relationships in his life generally had a tendency not to work out. Sure Andrea and Amy, the blonde sisters were good girls, known acquaintances, but no, not personally close enough for him to really confidently believe they were friends.

He'd be happy to make a friend of course, but it was for that same reason he wasn't good at friends.

What do others call it? Naïve? Overly idealistic? Unrequitedly sweet? Despite being prone to becoming attached to his people, this certain quality with Glenn always ended up as the victim of a one sided exploitation if not often abusive relationships. He preferred to call it a caring personality, but decided by now, in this point of his life, he was now tired of being used and ditched. So Glenn didn't make any friends.

It was going to be a problem, because he didn't have anyone else to ask things when a very hung over Andrea answered by her phone that she didn't know anything about the black truck. Bollocks. How many people drive Land Rovers with a stash of drugs cocked up in the back seat?

An annoyed Glenn threw his cell to his right, fingers tapping on wheels, back hunched against the seat. A group of teenagers honk their horn in mock laughter as they stop on the side to pass by the traffic, and well hell. Glenn was not in one of his best moods. They paused in dark silence when Glenn pulled down the windows, his swollen bloody eye speaking for him. He firmly flipped his bird at them as he drove past.

Getting out of the truck, a half shirtless, bruised-all-over Asian standing beside the vehicle wasn't at all strange, or that's what Glenn tried to believe. He had no plans, no idea on what to do next.

Perhaps he'll just leave the truck here, at the parking lot where it was yesterday, and hope that the owner comes back. Pretend nothing happened, and write a sorry note explaining he ripped apart the front panel in his drunken state. Maybe he'll draw an adorable spider or something as an offering of peace. Yeah, that was what he was going to do. It was going to work out just fine.

Until he realized that he didn't have any paper on him, nor a pen. Digging through his pockets, he only managed to scrounge out thin squashed up balls of super market receipts and an expired pizza coupon. Glenn frowned, looking around at the empty parking lot under the sun. Clearly he wasn't going to find any paper here unless he was feeling artsy.

The club was closed. The district part of downtown wasn't in any form of life until the sun went down. During the day it seemed dull and lifeless, just like any other part of the crowded city of Atlanta's neon dominated parts of town. Although, the windows were open. Glenn peeked through the back doors to realize that there were people inside, probably cleaning up from last night's mess. He headed inside, without even knowing why the hell he couldn't leave the Mitt Romney T-shirt back in the car and left it wrapped up in his arms.

Glenn vaguely remembers the black guy behind the counter talking to the stereo coordinators; a white snap back crooked on his head, in his drunken slur, kind of let slip that his name was Theodore. Everyone called him T-Dog nevertheless; he invested in the club business. Andrea has connections to some eccentric people, perks of being a lawyer he supposed.

"What up, kid. Club's closed."

"Yeah. I'm not here for more booze."

A very sober Glenn replied, who apparently as far as T-Dog could see, really didn't need any more alcohol.

A pen and paper might be nice. Glenn shrugs beside the counter as he bends to think about how he should write this note, should he go simple and plain? Eloquent and sensational or Prim and proper? Maybe the hipster way, Yo' sup dude stole your truck, I was wrong, it was a mistake but I was drunk, sorry ol' boy here's a Pikachu for you? Glenn never wrote letters, let alone emails. This was harder than he thought.

"You writing a love letter or somethin'?" T-Dog peeks, indiscreet in his way when turning his head around.

"I'm pouring my heart on it, so maybe?" Glenn frowned, continuing his mutters, rambling on as if it mattered much. "This is going to sound crazy, but I was totally pissed to shit and drove off with someone else's car yesterday."

No hell? T-Dog breaks into a chortle of laughter, making Glenn roll his eyes. It would've have been less funny if he told him that there were guns and drugs in the back seat. And a KKK poster dumped in the corner.

"Came to return it, hard to miss a car like that."

"Wait, shit kid."

T-Dog suddenly stops laughing, giving him a somber stare. Glenn blinked, unable to return the intimidating look. What? He responds, only to have T-Dog shaking his head, Beethoven playing in the background and all that.

"What? Seriously."

"Kid, is the car you took off with a big black Land Rover?"

"How'd you know?"

Glenn felt like a fool. There was this unnecessary suspense the other man was building up, and he didn't like it one bit. It felt life threatening, and Glenn Rhee had some thrill issues. Complicated issues.

"Lord save yo' ass man, my advice? No love letters. Leave the truck there and run like yer granny's life depends on it." T-Dog has that grave look on his face, ones in funeral marches.

"My grandmother is dead."

"Not the point kid, that car belongs to the Dixons."

He said it in a way in which people announce things like " _Her head cracked open. She's dead now_ ," which didn't do anything to improve Glenn's mood, he now felt more or less confused than ever.

"Was here thrashin' about, beatin' everyone up for an hour looking for his damn truck he was. Left his number at the counter, called in this mornin' to ask about it, I recall." T-Dog brushed past the table, reaching under the front desk beside the waiting lobby a platform across the stairs. Glenn followed in confused steps, unable to get an answer on why the Dixon pronoun was such a problem.

"Hell, I'll give you the number but only because you'd be able to throw the phone away when it blinks up on the screen. You just don't mix with the Dixon bunch."

"That's kind of ridiculous."

Sure the guns and drugs are kind of a giveaway, but Glenn frankly would have felt like an ass if he just left the truck with the panels hanging open and disappeared without a word. If something like that happened to him and his future car, he would've definitely felt the shit hitting the fan. So he was thinking of hanging around, let the guy punch him or something, say his sorry and try to make up for fixing the broken driver's panel in hopes that one day in the distant future his thief would validate his effort. He knows that was a naïve method of thinking, but away with that, hope is cheap.

"No little man, is' trying to keep you alive." T-Dog interrupts, scavenging the boxes for the number. "The Dixon brothers own the corner down the bad side of the street, mixed with all the syndicate mob shit and stuff in the red light district. They ain't friendly with people who're different."

"Er." Glenn starts; trying to process the information he has just been fed. "So they…"

"Them true damn criminals. Shot a guy down the street a few days ago coz' of money business, and trust me, they think that diversity of ethnicity is a plague. Racist hicks they are."

Glenn was quite content with being born Korean. They had mandatory conscription though, explains how the few remains of his college relationships ended abruptly because their student visa didn't really stop the calling of duty from the home turf. Well shit, certainly didn't help anything with his rushing confusion, Glenn's past encounter with the darker bunch down Atlanta before wasn't pretty.

Didn't end well, all messy and he couldn't even get the payment for the pizza back. Without being able to deny the panic that was digging up inside his chest, he could only gape at T-Dog who firmly squeezed the piece of paper into his hand.

* * *

So Glenn wondered if he could just leave a text message or something. Say that he left the car in the parking lot, Hope to god that whoever Daryl Dixon was, he didn't FBI on him and track him down with fingerprints. That would be awesomely nasty.

Glenn jumped at the bike noise coming around the corner. Feeling only a little tense, he realized he left his phone back at the truck when he threw it on his way here. Choosing whether or not it was a wise idea to text someone about a car he stole was actually challenging. Especially so when that said owner was apparently a "Racist hick" with past experience of gang violence and drugs.

He was making his way across the cooling asphalt, back to the truck. Struggling between a noble conscience and his gnawing need to stay alive, decided that perhaps he should consult Dale about this.

Glenn wasn't indecisive, but the last time he mixed with the folks down the red light district, they nearly broke his neck. The youth was only a few feet away from the truck when he felt like he heard his phone go off, something softly audible ringing in his ears. He grasped open the door knob, a blunt click and the beeper for the door open signal went off. He leaned into the passenger seat to grab his phone, half of his body still hanging out the door frame. Only he realized it wasn't the phone making his head ring.

A voice was shouting in the back, and his body froze. Because when you start hearing angry shouting in the distance, one tends to freeze, especially so, when Glenn actually had a faint idea why that might be.

He didn't dare move. Another shout echoed, it was definitely a man shouting, something along the lines of " _Get the fuck away from my truck shortround_. _"_

The voice however, sounded like he wanted to strangle the man frozen beside his car. Glenn peered at the side mirrors. There was a man, who was getting off an old fashioned motor cycle. Darker shade of blonde hair, blue eyes and built burly. Even from a distance there was something about the way he walked, something about his face, his eyes. It had the intensity of cold flames, distance did not seem to matter.

And he was carrying a crossbow.

Oh fuck it. Glenn quickly shot up from his lying posture. Without thinking anything much through, his conscience decided to hit the road. Covering his face with the Mitt Romney T-shirt was the fastest hand movement he has managed during a hangover in a long time. His heart pumped, leaping in a jolt when he realized that his sudden movements made the man chasing him across start running.

 _Oi! You mother fucker! Don't you hell dare!_

Glenn winced at the voice, slamming the passenger doors shut; he quickly proceeded to fumble with the knob at front, one hand busy trying to make his face incognito.

The man was running like a wild stallion by now, which in truth, Glenn felt it positively life threatening. He saw those faces, the build, the downtown Atlanta and the thugs they residue. A past trauma struck his breath hard, before the man was in the face perimeter Glenn stepped hard on the accelerator as soon as he shifted his gears.

The truck roared loudly before getting into speed, shooting backwards immediately. The man was by now close to the vehicle, despite the grown of the engines he didn't stop charging his way across. It was only the truck slinging back that made him jump out of the way, rolling on the dust filled floor with two scraped elbows. Glenn winced behind his covered face, his panic getting the better of his judgments when he stepped on it.

"Bitch! Get your ass back here!" The man practically bellows, snarling hard and running again for a few seconds before he heads back towards his bike. Shit, he was going to follow. No time to be feeling guilty and sorry, Glenn screeched into the streets, wasting no seconds.

Felt the blood rush, Glenn's parted lips gave way to heavy breathing. The man literally terrified him with just his posture, and had no particular idea why. His face flushed and eyes wide in alarm, Glenn turned his head to the side view mirrors as often as possible to check on any signs of a man on bike following behind.

Strangely he wasn't following. And that was more alarming than anything. Briefly worrying that perhaps he might've made him broke an appendage or something, Glenn bit his lips, checking for the bike for the infinite amount of time.

He froze.

And with a gut wrenching feeling, Glenn realized that his cell phone was missing from the car.


End file.
